Published: June 13, 2008 09:11 am            

Thinking small . . .

"The Telephone Call"

Click here to see the June 14, 2008 Neighbors section in its entirety


First in a series

By Bobbie Poynter, Community Editor

Take a look at the room at the right...

Forget that it is only 6 inches high and 8 inches wide. What do you see? Or better yet, what story does it tell you?

Ask the crafter, Kay Gray, 60, of Corbin and she will happily tell you the story inspired by the miniature setting, or vignette, as the French call it.

“The Telephone Call” is the first in a series of stories inspired by Kay’s miniature creations. Over the next several months, “Neighbors” will spotlight more of Kay Gray’s vignettes and the stories they inspired her to write. With each new story, you will also learn a little more about the author/creator.

The inspiration:

“I still remembered the old party lines when I found this old telephone. I was 13 years old when we got our first telephone. I remember because it was also the same day that we got our first indoor toilet. Boy, were we in hog heaven.

“Dad taught us how to lift the receiver very quietly and listen in on everyone else’s conversation. Of course, Mom taught us that it was the wrong thing to do.

“We had seven people on the party line, because the more people you had on the line, the cheaper the phone was.

“The pre-mature baby in the story was inspired by an actual telephone conversation I accidentally overheard.”

"The Telephone Call"

She had moved the rocker closer to the telephone several hours ago to wait for Harold’s call. She smiled to herself even as she thought of his name. She was probably in love for the first time in her life.

She never really went with the boys much, plus the fact that her mother kept her fairly close. She loved her mother for that but, in truth, sort of resented her mother for that, too. After all, this was her life. She didn’t have to repeat her mother’s life.

Then she paused and thought that maybe she was being unfair again. She personally felt the hurt too - oh, not as her mother felt it. She still missed her father. But there was always the chance that he might remember her and come out to the farm to see her. He might, one day, send her a letter or token by post. He might even call her someday on these new telephone things.

She knew her mother didn’t have any type of chance concerning her father. Even if he would come out to the farm, send a post or even called someday, her mother’s pride would not acknowledge any effort.

If only the divorce had not been so widely known. Goodness, she had to have that word explained to her - no one she had ever heard of had obtained a divorce until her father got one. If only her father’s new wife was not a shallow vain creature and really, not much older than herself. She sort of recalled her from school. Of course, she had not met up with her recently. Between her mother’s angry pride and her father’s guilty shame, she didn’t even have the chance to observe the woman in detail.

All she knew for sure was that her father had gotten bored with farming. Right there, her mother had gotten upset. The farm had been in the family for years and years. Her mother had inherited it shortly before their marriage, as she would someday own it in her turn. The land was all that mattered.

Her father had wanted to open an insurance business in town. He used the cash her mother had so carefully saved back, again upsetting her mother to no end. Farming is an uneven adventure at best. Crops sometimes fail. Weather sometimes turns. The cash money had to be set aside to wait out the lean times. With the money gone, the only choice had been to pray and cross fingers for a bit of extra luck. Her father had hired an office girl, again with the cash money wasted, and one thing and another thing and then the divorce.

Maybe if he would have paid back the money, or at least part of the money but, no. He saw it as wages from working the land so long. Poor mother — really, poor father.

She lifted the receiver on the telephone to her ear. Goodness, Ms. Craddick was still talking to her daughter, the one who just had that fine baby boy. She was pleased for Ms. Craddick and for her Susan, but they had been talking forever. She loved the idea of the telephone and the telephone lines that could connect a body across the miles, but hated the telephone party line they shared with four other families. She especially hated the party line when she, herself, might get a telephone call that day. Most of the time she liked to carefully lift the receiver and listen to others talk about their days.

Oh, how Ms. Craddick and Susan went on and on about that baby. Really. Maybe she would speak up. Maybe just tell them that everyone knew about Susan’s premature baby. Uh-huh, an eight pound and twelve ounce premature baby. Maybe she would remind them that several marriages begin with a premature baby, but any other children born to that marriage will take a full nine months to come about. 

Lifting the receiver once again, she found out that Ms. Craddick and her Susan had finally run out of things to say, but Ms. Walker had just begun. Oh blast and double blast! Ms. Walker liked to gossip and gossip, no one was safe from her sharp tongue. Anything she knew about, or worse yet, anything she thought she knew about, and she would prattle on for hours. Normally she sort of liked listening to old Ms. Walker, but today, the woman only annoyed her. Heaven only knew how long Ms. Walker would tie up the telephone line.

She almost screamed in frustration. Just how would Harold be able to call her, tell her she was his special girl, ask her about her day and did she miss him even a little bit? She giggled to herself, imagining the conversation. It was almost as good as really getting to talk to him. What? No. No, not as good by far. Nothing matched the timber of his voice. Nothing came close to the soft teasing and rise and fall of his breathing. Or the way he crinkled his eyes at the corners to smile at her. Yes, she thought she could really see that when they talked for a few precious moments on the telephone.

She lifted the receiver once again and almost squealed with delight when she heard Harold’s voice. She was barely able to keep her voice to herself as she heard him ask if Jenny was his special girl? Jenny? Jenny Ann Thompson? Two farms over and a year younger than herself? She heard Harold ask her (Jenny Ann Thompson) about her day and did she (Jenny Ann Thompson) miss him even a little bit?

She replaced the receiver as gently as possible. Her hand only trembled a little. Goodness. She’d wasted most of the afternoon in the house. There were many, many things she should attend to. Running a farm, running a household, meant that there is always something that needs to done somewhere. Her mother was right. The best thing to do was to stay busy.

At least she hadn’t shared her dreams of a Harold in her life. At least she didn’t have to face that shame in public. She knew she would always and always be a little more patient and kinder towards her mother. She knew that now she didn’t really care if she ever saw her father again. She knew that the idea, the hopes, the prayers of and for Harold was at an end. Just like that. Over. Now she would just have to convince her heart, because there was no Harold in her life now. 

She checked the time and thought she might as well start the milking early.

About the creator:

Kay Gray grew up in the small town of Winfield, Kansas in a family home that included not only her siblings, but numerous cousins as well. This left little space or money for elaborate collections, so Kay began collecting very tiny objects that peaked her interest. Throughout her life, she held onto her little trinkets in the hope that one day she would find a way to put them to use. That day finally came years after her own children had grown and Kay herself had retired. The miniatures began as a simple way to fill the hours.

        

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